


Midsummer Classic

by amagicdreamhaver



Category: Hockey RPF
Genre: Established Relationship, M/M
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-04-19
Updated: 2016-04-24
Packaged: 2018-06-03 04:25:19
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 2,473
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6596572
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/amagicdreamhaver/pseuds/amagicdreamhaver
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Over the summer, their t-shirts and gym shorts had become shared possessions, but hell would freeze over before Claude would ever sport a Penguins logo, even in the safety of Sid's kitchen.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. I Danced Quarters on the Windowsill

**Author's Note:**

> This work is ridiculously fictitious and is, in no way, meant to represent the real people on whom these characters are based. The story title and chapter tittles are taken from the song Midsummer Classic by the endlessly talented Sundowner.

Looking back, Sid is never able to pin down the exact moment where things changed, really changed, between Claude and himself. Claude says he is, but Claude always seems to have an answer for everything. Sid is all shades of gray, the edges of his opinions and beliefs always fuzzy, self-tormented Claude said once. But Claude? He was the guy who saw everything in black and white. Philly is good, Pittsburgh is bad. Winning feels right, losing feels wrong. Grilled cheese is delicious. Broccoli is gross. No matter what question Sid asks Claude, Claude always has an answer right there on the tip of his tongue, ready to be shared like fact. Sid envies Claude for this reason, envies the way he's always been able to sail through life so sure. 

Sid hasn't felt sure, about anything, ever. _Except Claude that is._

He listens to the small snores coming from beside him and turns to study the short red hairs covering the back of Claude's head and the way his hand disappears under the dark blue of Sid's pillowcase. He likes Claude's short hair. It looks clean and sleek and just handsome, but he also misses the unruly mop that his counterpart usually sports. He misses it because it embodies Claude, at least as well as a haircut can surmise someone's entire personality. Messy. Ridiculous. Honest. Without pretense. 

Sid closes his eyes and sucks in a breath, centering himself enough to tear his mind away from the redhead. When had he let things get this out of hand? He knows he should have stopped things the very first time they kissed, but the kiss had been long overdue by the time it actually happened. Maybe it was the first night in Prague, when Claude sat down next to Sid and bought him a beer. 

_"Teammates, that's what we are right now, and teammates buy each other beers," Giroux had said._

_Sid nodded, accepting the drink with the fleeting thought that it could have been poisoned before taking a sip. Sid wasn't a big drinker. He was too focused on his health and his training and his control to really enjoy drinking. Simply put, he was wound too tight, but if he turned down the beer, he might as well just pour it all over Giroux. It would have meant the same thing to him. So Sid drank._

_He expected Giroux to get back up and go talk to someone he actually liked, but he stuck around, asking Sid how his flight was and if he'd shaken off the jet lag yet._

_"Fucking terrible, actually," Sid had groaned. "Tried to sleep, kid behind me kicked my seat the entire time, didn't sleep at all."_

_Giroux laughed and clapped him on the back, downing the rest of his beer. "Golden boy not good with kids?" Giroux had joked._

_Sid remembered glaring and mumbling something about being fine with kids just not when they won't stop kicking his seat on an eight-hour flight. Giroux just smirked, and ordered another round, and the bartender placed another beer before each of them before Sid was half-finished his first._

_Giroux stayed put and talked long enough for Sid to almost finish his second beer, which took embarrassingly long. (He watched Giroux drink double in the same amount of time.) Then he stood up, clapped Sid's back again, nodded, and wondered off to talk to the rest of the team. Sid finally stood up too, taking a moment to adjust to the alcohol in his veins pushing his balance just a smidge off kilter, and headed back to the hotel. He'd had enough weird for one night._

"I think I've had enough weird for a lifetime," Sid mutters to himself now lying on his back. He runs both palms up his face and through his hair, staring intently at the ceiling, hoping maybe the answers to all life's questions are written on the fan blades. 

"Is that you breaking up with me?" Comes the voice from beside him. He cracks open an eye and glances over to Claude, who has rolled over to face him and is apparently awake now. Claude's eyes are usually dark enough to be mistaken for brown, but the light of the morning sun is accenting the blue-green of his irises. All Sid can think about is the ocean. 

He shakes his head in response, even though Claude obviously wasn't serious, and returns his gaze to the ceiling. The two lie in silence for a few moments before Claude speaks again. 

"What's wrong?" 

It's something Sid has heard a lot lately, especially from Claude. "Nothing," he shakes his head again. It's not a complete lie because while it feels as if something has been nagging at Sid, he's not sure he can articulate it, and honestly, what's the point of complaining about something that may not even be a thing? "Breakfast?" The best way to redirect Claude Giroux's attention is food, and it doesn't take sleeping with him to know that. 

"Ugh, yes," Claude assents. He kicks the blanket from his body and stretches. Sid rolls to face him, placing his left fist into his open right palm. At some point, 'rock, paper, scissors' had become the go-to method for deciding who would cook breakfast. 

"Nah," is Claude's response this morning. He gently pushes Sid's hands down and pecks him on the lips before slipping from bed. "I'll cook." He picks a shirt up from the floor, grimaces, and drops it in favor of another. Over the summer, their t-shirts and gym shorts had become shared possessions, but hell would freeze over before Claude would ever sport a Penguins logo, even in the safety of Sid's kitchen. 

Sid watches Claude's retreating form, momentarily considers following him to the kitchen, and finally resolves to stay in bed until the scent of bacon calls his name.


	2. The Summer Left Me to a Different Fate

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Maybe this isn't about ESPN or the weather after all.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I spent all day writing Cheesby because I don't want to do the real work that I should have been doing.

Claude is reclining on Sid's sofa. He props his feet on the coffee table and lets the mug in his hand linger at his lips. He's watching Sid with both amusement and apprehension. Sid is trying to figure out 'why the damn cable isn't working' because he needs to 'know what the high temperature is today' and 'watch fucking ESPN'. Claude couldn't care less about the weather forecast, and he would like to see how the Phillies did last night, but Sid fumbling with wires and cursing under his breath is far more entertaining. Flustered Sid is one of Claude's favorites, second only to Bossy Sid and Horny Sid. 

Claude chuckles from the couch, unable to contain his delight at the situation. His slip earns him a glare from Sid. "You could help, you know," He grumbles. 

"Have you tried unplugging it and plugging it back in?" Claude offers. 

"Thanks, IT help line. I never thought of that," Sid's sarcastic reply comes back with a bit more bite than Claude had anticipated. 

Claude sighs, realizing that maybe this isn't about ESPN or the weather after all. He puts down his coffee and joins his boyfriend at the entertainment center. Sid is plugging and unplugging wires haphazardly when Claude places a hand over his. The gesture is gentle but firm. "We need to talk." 

Sid and Claude stand at essentially the same height, but Claude has to glance down to meet Sid's eyes. His shoulders are slumped, and he just seems so much smaller than normal. He sucks in a great amount of air before replying. "About what?" 

Claude takes a step back, trying to give him some space. "I don't know. You tell me." 

Sid closes his eyes, runs his hands over his face and through his hair just like he'd done this morning when he'd thought Claude wasn't awake. Claude wants to help, needs to help because he can't stand to watch Sid suffer in silence, but he knows he's going to have to push him before Sid ever opens up. It's something he hates doing at home, so he sits down and resolves to proceed as if he's on the ice, where it comes as naturally as breathing. 

"There's nothing to talk about," Sid huffs, now indiscriminately poking at buttons on the cable box. 

"Fine," Claude waves his hand dismissively and directs his attention to his cell phone. 

"Fine?" Sid scoffs. He turns his head back to Claude, who barely glances up from the phone. 

"Yeah, fine," Claude insists, now watching highlights from last night's Phillies game. 

"You're dropping it? Just like that?" 

"Uh huh," Claude nods. "If you wanna cry about whatever is bothering you rather than fix it, that's on you." 

Sid straightens up immediately. "What?" He snaps through a clenched jaw. 

Claude shrugs and stands. He meets Sid in a few paces. "You heard me." They're standing face to face. Sid's shoulders are square now, and his eyes black. Claude crossed a line, and he knows it. Until now, Crosby and Giroux, bitter on-ice rivals, remained at the rink, and Sid and Claude didn't even acknowledge that those two guys existed. 

Claude briefly wonders if Sid will punch him. His hands are balled into angry fists at his sides, and he's visibly restraining himself. Claude almost wants Sid to punch him because it would probably be hot, but that's not what he's supposed to be focusing on right now. "You gonna stand around and whine, or deal with whatever your issue is?" 

"Fuck you," Sid bristles."You don't get to pull that shit here." 

"Pull what?" Claude asks, going for the innocent act. 

The pair are still standing only inches apart. Claude notices Sid's lip twitch in annoyance. "You know exactly what I'm talking about." 

Of course Claude knows. "So say it. Call me out. Do something besides shove it all inside and carry it around on your shoulders. You expect me to believe that you're this upset about the damn cable? Or that you lie awake in bed just fucking staring at the ceiling every morning because there's nothing wrong?" Sid's lower jaw drops slightly, but no words come out. "Yeah, I saw you this morning and yesterday and the day before that, and every time I ask what's wrong you say nothing and pretend to be okay for a while. Then you go right back to being super bitchy about random shit." By the time Claude finishes, he's worked himself into a frenzy, and he gives Sid a one-handed shove. It's just a tap on the shoulder really, but it pisses Sid off, who shoves him in return, harder and with two hands. 

Moments later their arms are locked on each other, neither man gaining much ground. Sid is stronger, but Claude is scrappier. It leaves the two of them in a deadlock until they stumble over the coffee table, sending Claude's forgotten mug to the floor, where coffee quickly spreads over the beige carpet. 

"Fuck!" Sid yells, and it's enough to pull both men from the fight. "What the fuck are we doing?" Sid slides off the table, away from the spilt coffee, and sits on the floor. His knees are bent, feet flat on the floor before him, and he's breathing heavy. 

Claude rolls off the opposite side of the table, and lies on his back, attempting to even his own breath. "Why can't you ever just say what's wrong?" He asks, feeling strangely calm now. 

"Why can't you ever just leave things alone?" Sid replies, something desperate but resigned in his voice. 

_Because I love you._ Claude doesn't say it. This isn't how he's going to tell Sid his feelings. 

Silence envelops them. Neither moves to clean the coffee. Claude stares at the ceiling. Sid stares at the blank screen of the television. It's Sid who finally speaks first. 

"This is what I've been worried about," He says so quietly that it's almost a whisper. "I've been worried that eventually we were going to realize we're too different to keep doing this or that... _work_ ," he emphasizes the word, like saying 'hockey' between them means acknowledging the thing that they've been so desperately trying to avoid, "was going to fuck things up." 

"Sid," Claude starts, but he hesitates because he doesn't really have a good answer. It's a first, Sid privately notices. "No relationship is easy all the time." 

"It shouldn't be this hard, though," Sid sighs. He runs his hands over his face. "Maybe we should stop now before it gets even harder." 

Claude sits up. His eyes zero in on the back of Sid's head. "You're breaking up with me?" It's the second time today that Claude has spoken the words, but it's the first time he's meant them. 

Sid's silence, the way he doesn't turn back to look Claude in the eye, says more than any combinations of words could. 

"Wow, I try to help you, and you break up with me. Alright, Sid. Fine. We're done. I'll get my shit and go, but if you let me walk out the door, make sure it's what you want." The fight has left Claude. He can't keep asking what's wrong. He can't keep giving without getting anything back in return, so he gets up and walks away. 

He finds himself in Sid's room, unzipping his bag without giving much thought to what he's going to do next. _Numb._ Claude grabs the small amount of clothes that he can find easily, along with the essentials. Phone charger, laptop, his tooth. He actually has to go into the bathroom and get his fucking fake tooth. He throws his toothbrush in the trash while he's in there. He can buy a new one. 

It only takes fifteen minutes to quickly sweep Sid's house. He's operating on autopilot, letting his body make the decisions because his brain has shut down. When he returns to the living room Sid is still sitting on the floor in the same position. His knees are still drawn up toward his body, arms resting on his legs. His head sits in his hands, facing the floor. 

The coffee has completely sunk into the carpet now, and the only thought Claude can actually formulate is that a professional will have to remove that stain. He tears his eyes away, giving one last long look at Sid. Claude doesn't pray often, but right now he's silently begging for Sid to just say something. Fucking anything. 

No luck. Claude adjusts the strap of the duffel bag on his shoulder. He passes Sid, moving from the living room to the foyer. He's at the front door, hand on the door knob. Five seconds, he tells himself, but five more seconds pass, and Sid still hasn't moved or spoken or done much more than breathe. 

Claude steps out into the horribly bright day. The front door clicks shut behind him. He doesn't look back.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So I'm sorry because I really wanted to give you guys a few chapters of happy fluffy cheesby first, but the Flyers lost today and I wrote this instead.


End file.
